


this strange, angry packet for you, threaded with love

by Dialux



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ......kind of, Angst and Feels, Betrayal, Brother-Brother Relationship, Canon Compliant, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Forgotten Women, Gen, Kings Being Bitchy @ Each Other, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Politics and Alliances, Reconciliation, Talking To Birds, The Last Alliance of Elves and Men, but EVILER, evil winter storms a la saruman at caradhras, the legacy of things not wholly lost, there are seven relationship tags for this story and this story's the first for six of them, though a better name for it would have been ''Alliance of The Seven Kings"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28166784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: But they do not come on the day that Elendil had assured him they would. A week- a fortnight- passes, and nobody emerges from the plains north of Minas Tirith. There are no silver-prowed ships, and no blue pennants, and no messages either. Anárion cannot even send his own scouts out; they need them within the city, and he cannot quite countenance it simply to assuage his curiosity. All he can do is wait, and the silence feels more ominous than even messages might have been, no matter how bad the news.And then, three weeks late, a host limps out of the mist: muddied, shadowed soldiers of Gil-Galad’s army; the vanguard for the rest of their forces.[As the Last Alliance marches south to Gondor, their first battle occurs in Fangorn Forest, where Isildur is gravely injured by a betrayal for which he is both innocent and guilty. Kings Oropher and Amdír are threatening to abandon the alliance; King Elendil is deeply worried over his eldest son's fate; King Gil-Galad is straining to hold it all together until they reach Mordor.And that's all before a malevolent snowstorm forces them to remain in Osgiliath for the winter.]
Relationships: Amdír & Oropher (Tolkien), Anárion & Elendil the Tall, Anárion & Isildur, Anárion's Nameless Daughter & Anárion's Wife, Anárion/Anárion's Wife, Aratan & Isildur, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë
Kudos: 23
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa





	this strange, angry packet for you, threaded with love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fernstrike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike/gifts).



> Written for the 2020 Tolkien Secret Santa exchange. I do hope my recipient will enjoy it XDD
> 
> Some notes:  
> \- Title comes from Adrienne Rich's quote: _"To say: no person, trying to take responsibility for her or his identity, should have to be so alone. There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep, and still be counted as warriors. (I make up this strange, angry packet for you, threaded with love.) I think you thought there was no such place for you, and perhaps there was none then, and perhaps there is none now; but we will have to make it, we who want an end to suffering, who want to change the laws of history, if we are not to give ourselves away.”_  
>  \- This story takes place directly after the battle that occurs at Fangorn Forest, where Sauron has destroyed the Entwives; though according to canon it's a simple skirmish, I've made it a bit... larger  
> \- The names of the women are taken from [this Quenya dictionary,](https://www.ambar-eldaron.com/telechargements/quenya-engl-A4.pdf) with the following meanings:  
> 1\. Eresse - alone  
> 2\. Italime - silver light  
> 3\. Istilme - moonlight  
> 4\. Istya - wise  
> 5\. Ceura - balanced  
> \- The second quote that caught my eye was that Valandil was left behind in Rivendell, and that he was born in SA 3430, which is quite late compared to literally everyone else in the family. Idk!!! But I've been kind of obsessed with the remarriages of Numenor's people for a while now, and... that's where I'm going with this. (Also, yk, himbo!Isildur ftw yes?)  
> \- We _also_ know that apparently both beasts and birds fought on both sides!!! This is wild to me!!! How did Sauron get pigeons on his side? I want to KNOW!!!!! So this story is partly trying to explore that. In a.... fashion.  
> \- And finally, apparently Khazad-dum's relationship with Men was fairly good until the end of Durin IV's reign, when their colonies dwindled most likely because trade routes with men being compromised. He sent an army, though- notably- he didn't accompany them. Strange when literally every other king personally marched south, no? 
> 
> So, like, this story tries to tackle... a bunch of politics, and also discusses the ways that personal grievances are/can affect official policy. Also family shizzle, because that is my jam!!!! 
> 
> Warnings for a scene in which a character contemplates death and accepts it as inevitable; parent/child conflict; family tensions; vague mentions of fantastic racism; near-death scenarios. Nothing really major, imo, lol.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy it!

> “From Imladris they crossed the Misty Mountains by many passes and marched down the River Anduin, and so came at last upon the host of Sauron on Dagorlad, the Battle Plain, which lies before the gate of the Black Land. All living things were divided in that day, and some of every kind, even of beasts and birds, were found in either host, save the Elves only. They alone were undivided and followed Gil-galad. Of the Dwarves few fought upon either side; but the kindred of Durin of Moria fought against Sauron.”
> 
> _-_ _The Silmarillion_

**Arc One: Anárion**

…

Ar-Pharazôn had chosen to attack Valinor in late autumn.

It had been a thoughtful decision, borne out of centuries of experience in subduing other lands. Attacking at autumn meant the summer storms would be less in intensity, and more importantly- most importantly- the attacks would leave any cities undergoing sieges stripped of valuable harvesting time. Amandil had bitterly warned Pharazôn against it; he’d warned Pharazôn against attacking Valinor at all, in fact, and Pharazôn had sent the messenger’s hand back in a box, still clutching that letter.

It is one of the last vestiges left of the Númenórean army that Anárion remembers: the desire to attack in autumn, even when it would mean a siege, even when it would mean a siege in _winter,_ and none of them need suffer through it needlessly.

But Elendil rebuffs his advice. _Reducing the enemy’s supplies is necessary, even if it makes our lives more difficult. Be ready to meet us at the Anduin. We shall be bearing flags of silver and blue,_ he writes, and Anárion grimaces even as he starts preparations for raising his army.

“I would prefer to have stayed here,” he tells his wife that night.

She is the high-tempered niece of Almaida’s lord, golden-eyed as a Vanyar, and lovelier still; her hair is a thick black banner that hangs almost to her knees, and she only lets it fall out of its bun in the privacy of their bedchambers. Anárion is glad that he is the younger son whenever he sees her: he’d loved Eressë from the moment he laid eyes on her, and Anárion would not have been given the freedom to wed her if he’d been his father’s heir, no matter how much he might have begged.

“But you shall go to war instead,” says Eressë, and she does not even look weary now; she does not even look unhappy. There’s an awful kind of resignation in her beautiful eyes. “And leave me to handle the kingdom myself.”

“Meneldil shall stay here.”

“Of course he shall stay here,” she says. “Were you considering taking him to _Mordor?”_

“No,” says Anárion, but he hesitates just long enough that Eressë’s lips purse. “Isildur is taking his sons with him. I simply thought- when I mentioned it to my father- it wasn’t so big a-”

“Your father has thought himself greater than human ever since we sailed from Elenna,” says Eressë, voice brittle. “And your brother thinks himself invincible.”

“It has guided them thus far. To greater heights than any other man in all of Númenor.”

“And the moment they falter, the burden shall fall to you.” She touches his neck, where the necklace she knots and re-knots every year lies at his throat, made of some strange silk that Anárion has never known. “Do not be so foolish, Anárion. Bravery cannot warm my bed.”

He catches her fingers, and presses a kiss to them. “What I would not give for a warm bed!” he says. “But we shall both have to suffer, my dearest wife. My father’s edicts remain law. Though perhaps the distance shall make your heart soften.”

“I was not aware I needed a softer heart,” says Eressë archly, but she kisses him afterwards, and they do not leave their bed until long past the sun has risen the next morning.

…

But they do not come on the day that Elendil had assured him they would. A week- a fortnight- passes, and nobody emerges from the plains north of Minas Tirith. There are no silver-prowed ships, and no blue pennants, and no messages either. Anárion cannot even send his own scouts out; they need them within the city, and he cannot quite countenance it simply to assuage his curiosity. All he can do is wait, and the silence feels more ominous than even messages might have been, no matter how bad the news.

And then, three weeks late, a host limps out of the mist: muddied, shadowed soldiers of Gil-Galad’s army; the vanguard for the rest of their forces.

Anárion welcomes them grimly, but they offer little in terms of news. They’re all greyed-out and exhausted, which doesn’t bode well for Arnor’s army if the _elves_ are this worn and wounded. A few rumors do reach Anárion: a battle, extended and bitter, in the close quarters of the Fangorn forest, and then the blame and fury that followed between the various peoples. One rumor mentions Isildur, but not in anything resembling coherence, and when he tries to question the soldiers further they all snap their mouths shut like steel traps.

Instead, he readies his people.

An army shall be arriving, and most likely, decamping inside of both Minas Tirith’s and Osgiliath’s borders. They must be ready to give up their beds. It will not be an easy time, but at least they have the rations for it.

It’s little over a week later that the army in full does emerge out of the snowy fields. They’re a glorious bunch; gleaming pennants, and glimmering armor, all blowing horns of such grandeur that they could make any man’s blood sing with pride and war-lust.

If this is the army weakened and exhausted, then Anárion little wants to consider how they might have been in Rivendell. Surely that sight would have struck true fear in the depths of the Enemy’s heart!

Swiftly, he approaches to welcome them into Osgiliath, sweeping a deep bow that is echoed in turn by Gil-Galad and Elrond, though not- Anárion notes, with some amusement- Amdír or Oropher. His father nods to him tersely. But Isildur is nowhere to be seen.

“You are welcome here, my lords,” says Anárion. “Please, enter Osgiliath. Our resources are yours.”

“We would be glad of it,” says Gil-Galad. His hair shines brilliantly, even under the scant winter sunlight. “Our path has not been as easy as we hoped, Anárion. More casualties; fewer allies. The things that Sauron has done…”

“Your men mentioned that there was a skirmish in Fangorn forest,” says Anárion.

“A skirmish?” asks Amdír sharply. “No, it was nothing quite so simple. We are already betrayed by-”

 _“-enough,”_ says Gil-Galad, even sharper, and Amdír subsides for all that he still looks incensed. Gil-Galad turns a weary gaze back to Anárion. “I’m sure you shall wish to speak to your people, my lord. This- none of this- could have been foreseen earlier. We know this.”

Anárion frowns, but then he catches the look on Elendil’s face: it’s never looked quite so forbidding before, not even when faced with Amandil’s abandonment. Instead, he nods, and gestures for them to follow him into the castle.

…

There’s always something for a host to be doing, so Anárion doesn’t actually get an audience with his father until well into the night. By then, more information has filtered through the city: Isildur is injured, apparently, and gravely so; some claim that he was injured in the process of saving Amdír, but the Galadhrim of Lothlórien are furious about it for some reason. 

When Anárion finally slips into his father’s chambers, it looks almost empty. Elendil has collapsed into a chair, hunching in on himself, and for all his height he looks very old and very tired when he sees Anárion.

“My boy,” he says.

“Father,” says Anárion. “Are you- how are you?”

“I’ve been better.” He sighs. “There have been too many mistakes over these weeks. Over these months. Too many people have died for them.”

“Isildur is not dead.”

“Isildur is a fool.”

_“Father.”_

“Too wild, too headstrong, too trusting- the fool remarried some girl from the Celebrant and brought her to Rivendell, did he tell you that?”

“No,” says Anárion, startled. “No, he hasn’t mentioned it. When did he…”

“Eru only knows,” says Elendil flatly. “But he did, and of course Elrond did not turn her away. She even bore him a son recently. You heard, I’m certain, that Isildur wanted Aratan and Ciryon kept out of the battle?”

Anárion nods, drawing up a chair. “He last told me that he wished to leave them in Rivendell.”

“And then, about a month after we’ve left, the girl is found trying to sneak into Valandil’s- that’s the youngest boy- rooms, pillow in hand and a bag packed on her bed. She was found by Aratan- by chance, nothing more. And then she confessed to being one of Sauron’s agents. That her family was Sauron’s, as well, and that she’d been commanded to pass all of the information that Isildur gave to her back to Sauron. Then she begged him to let her go.”

For a long moment, Anárion doesn’t know how to answer. “Did he?”

“Her family had built a trap for us. She gave Aratan the information in exchange for safe passage out of Rivendell. Ciryon wanted her shot as she fled, but the elves told them that they would be banished from their home if they broke the terms of their treaty.” He shrugs. “Then they rode, as fast as they could, to reach us before we reached the Celebrant.”

“Did they come in time?”

“Almost,” says Elendil quietly. “But not quite.”

“I’ve heard that he’s injured, but not how… bad.”

“Aratan commanded his company to protect Isildur. But we’d spent hours training for the elves to be joined with the men’s companies- after we’d left Rivendell, mind you. His company’s movement made some of the elves move as well, and that left Amdír defenseless. He had little choice but to move outward and do a full frontal attack unless he wanted all his people slaughtered.”

“Which didn’t help the rest of you.”

“Gil-Galad was furious,” says Elendil dryly. “So was I.”

Anárion hesitates briefly; he doesn’t know how to exactly put his feelings into words. But his father’s always been harsh on Isildur, and Anárion can feel the cracks of this alliance slowly deepening: the alliance that Isildur built with his own hands and words and will. 

And suddenly, he knows exactly what to say.

“It is not easy,” he tells his father. “The Enemy is singular: and though we are the greater, we each have our own desires and our own goals. It’s only because of Isildur’s trust and brilliance that any of them have come this far, Father. Let us not forget that.”

Elendil stares at him, and then he laughs, sharp and short, like digging iron out of his lungs, like someone breathing properly for the first time in far, far too long. “It’s been too long apart from you, my son,” he says.

Anárion smiles at him, and claps him on the shoulder, and leaves.

…

Instead of returning to his chambers, Anárion goes to the infirmary. His brother is asleep on the pallet, but there’s a dark gash on his face, stretching down from his skull to his jawline. It’s barely stitched shut, despite the month since the formation of the wound.

When they’d been children, Anárion had been the wilder child: the more indulged child. Their grandfather had practically raised Isildur, and Amandil had not been a kind or gentle man. The only reprieves that Isildur ever received came from their mother. Their mother, who decided to die with Númenor instead of flee with her family. 

But by the time of Anárion’s birth, Elendil’s duty to sail and be an army soldier had been finished, and he’d returned just a few weeks before Anárion was born. Anárion’s childhood had been wonderful; all laughter and golden summers, apples and honey. Even while the rest of Númenor darkened and Sauron came to court- even as everything felt like it was falling to pieces- they’d had a family, Anárion and Isildur, a family and children and laughter. But then Númenor drowned, and they survived, and their mother’s death hit Isildur hard. 

Terribly hard.

Amandil’s death had not been easy, but they might have dealt with it. It was the combination: Amandil, their mother, their grandmother, too, who’d decided to follow Amandil on his quest to warn the Valar. Elendil had grown cold and steadily more reckless over the following years. 

Isildur had taken it all to heart.

And so Anárion had chosen to stay with his brother instead of with his father. At first it had been simply so his children wouldn’t have to deal with their terribly difficult father. Then it had been because Isildur needed so _much_ help: they were young fathers, and their wives were young queens, and they were also so young to be kings, too, and they’d leaned on each other in order to build Gondor, to build this kingdom that was so much grander than either of them could have managed on their own.

It’s been five years since Sauron attacked Minas Ithil and drew Isildur out of the city. It’d been a blessing amidst all the terror; Isildur had never enjoyed staying in one place. He and Elendur- and later, Aratan and Ciryon- accompanied him across the continent, drumming up support, charming foreign courts. It doesn’t surprise Anárion that his brother might have fallen in love with a strange woman living on a river’s edge. But it does hurt to see him like this: so helpless, bleached by the moonlight into a shadow of a shade of his true self.

“You damn well better awake,” Anárion murmurs to him. “I’m not certain Father shall ever forgive you if you do not.”

He reaches out, barely, to touch his brother’s hair, and just as he’s curled a hand through it, there’s a thunderous crash from above.

Above.

There’s only one thing above the infirmary of the Tower of Osgiliath.

_I’ll be damned if the Enemy gets his hands on a Palantír!_

Snarling, Anárion whips away and sprints out of the infirmary. He grabs a sword from a nearby suit of armor on the way. Up and up and up, to the Dome of Stars, where- _yes,_ there’s a demon, white-haired and eldritch as the currently-shadowed stars. Anárion can feel terror dogging at his footsteps. If he stops to think, it’ll overwhelm him.

So he doesn’t.

The sword is a clean, bright blur that slams against the demon, forcing it back before it can mount a defence. Its hands are busy with the Palantír, not a sword, and so Anárion has the advantage even through the thick, dark miasma emanating from it. Still, the cold judders down his spine as his steel bites into the demon’s arm and draws dark blood from it. 

Isildur is the better swordsman of the two of them, but Anárion is the smarter one. He doesn’t bother to try to defeat the demon; Anárion simply hacks at it until the Palantír slips from its grasp, and then he kicks the glass ball out of reach, secure in its sturdiness. Only after that does he look up to glare at the demon, staring at him. Anárion lifts his sword, ready to attack or deflect an onslaught as necessary.

“Tell your master that he’ll find the men of Númenor not so easily cowed,” he says, voice thick with fury. “And that it matters not if he finds another shadow to hide inside: for we shall find him, and we shall _end_ him!”

“That is not what your brother said,” says the demon, in a voice that is sickening only because of its utter normalcy, “when I cut his face open.”

From somewhere, Anárion dredges up a truly ghastly smile. “I am not my brother.”

“No,” says the demon, hopping back. It sounds _thoughtful._ “You’re rather different from him.” It bats at its own head, as if swatting away flies. “Fine then. A bloodprice, for cutting me. Not many have managed it, you know?”

“Get _out,”_ says Anárion, something twisting in his belly.

“A prophecy for you, little king,” croons the demon, and then balances on the curving railing of the Dome. “The men of your house shall face betrayal, over and over and over again: thrice done, and twice finished, and only one yet to be completed.” 

“I don’t need to _hear_ this.”

That something feels like panic. 

“There is an old saying in the Rhûn: _forgotten women are as the storms, life-givers and life-stealers._ Beware the storms, little king of Gondor. Beware the storms that are coming.”

And then it leaps off, flapping into the night. Anárion watches it flee into the dark night, until long past the dark blur is indistinguishable from the rest of the sky. And then, suddenly, Eressë is right there: her hair a smudge of darkness over her white face, eyes stripped of color in the dimness of the tower, hands almost painfully warm over his knuckles.

“Anárion,” she’s saying, sound strained and too terrified. “Anárion, please, _please,_ you have to let go of the sword- your skin might have torn- it’s so _cold-”_

“Eressë,” he manages, barely a whisper.

She sags, a little, at his response, and then starts rubbing his skin harder. “Are you with me?”

“I don’t- I didn’t go anywhere.”

“You didn’t respond to any of us,” she says, shrill with terror, but then her hands come up and cup his face, and the warmth there is almost enough to make Anárion hiss, but there’s so much tenderness in it that he can’t quite bring himself to flinch out of her embrace. “Two elves tried. The bells have been ringing for almost an hour. What did you _do?”_

Anárion blinks. “I was in the infirmary.”

“When?”

“An- a little over an hour ago, I suppose.”

“And then?”

“I heard a crash. And came up here. The- pedestal-” Remembering, he twists, and sees the shattered marble slabs scattered all over the floor. Anárion inhales, slowly, when he manages to identify the precious glimmer of the Palantír amidst the rubble. “-it was broken when I came here. It was a demon.”

“A Nazgûl,” says another voice, and Lord Elrond emerges out of the shadows of the entrance. He nods to Eressë. “One of my people came to me when they thought that King Anárion wasn’t capable of being revived.”

Eressë swallows, and Anárion can see her slotting masks over her features, scrabbling up dignity and composure like that, too, has been as well-destroyed as the marble surrounding them. 

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispers, and steps away from Anárion.

Elrond approaches Anárion slowly, a healer’s observant gaze sweeping him from head to toe. “I suppose the Enemy wished to get a Palantír. It was fortunate that he did not.”

“Not fortune,” Anárion grits out. “I fought him- it. The demon. The Nazgûl. I wounded it; it bled. The blood was cold. And then it spoke.”

“Spoke?” says Elrond, eyes sharpening.

Anárion tips his head forward. “I taunted it- I had to keep myself angry. There was terror emanating from it like a- like a _scent._ And that seemed to amuse it. It said that it had cut Isildur’s face open- and that it owed me a bloodprice for cutting it.”

“Did it give you anything?”

 _“Words,”_ says Anárion flatly. “A prophecy. That the men of my house shall face betrayal, thrice over. Twice finished and one yet to come. And then some old Rhûn saying, about women, and storms, or- or-”

“Forgotten women are as the storms,” murmurs Elrond. “Life-givers, and life-stealers.”

“That’s the one.” Anárion swallows. “And it told me to beware the storms. Next thing I knew- I saw Eressë.”

He turns to look at her, and she’s very, very pale, like something’s drained her of all the blood in her body. She hadn’t looked this bad when the wave drowned Númenor.

“Eressë?” asks Anárion, alarmed.

She shakes her head, jerking into motion. “I’ll send someone to bring you down. Can he sleep in our bedchamber tonight, or does he need the infirmary?”

“The infirmary isn’t necessary,” replies Elrond. “You brought him out of the trance yourself; he is a very strong man, Queen Eressë, if he can withstand a Nazgûl so easily. Keep him warm and let him get proper rest; we shall see what to do tomorrow.”

Eressë nods and leaves. Elrond stays until Anárion’s page comes to him, and then disappears with the swift, silent tread that all the elves seem to have. When Anárion reaches his quarters, they’re empty: the fire is burning high, and the covers are drawn down as if awaiting him, but Eressë is nowhere to be found.

Anárion is exhausted enough that he doesn’t try to stay up for her; there must be something in the kitchens, or some other sudden emergency. He drowses instead, waking with a shake when she slips back into bed: her limbs are _cold,_ and there’s the faintest smell of horse.

“Trouble in the stables?” he mumbles.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” replies Eressë, and cards her fingers through his hair until he falls back asleep.

…

**Arc Two: Oropher**

…

The sun rises on Oropher’s cold gaze, but there is barely a lightening of the sky: the clouds of snow are far, far too thick for it. Their attempts to reach Mordor and Sauron’s home before the winter storms hit are in vain; they’ve been delayed by a month with the injuries in Fangorn, and winter’s coming early, too, this year.

He closes his eyes briefly, reveling in the freezing bite of the wind right before the snow falls.

Which is when he feels the _edge_ to it.

 _This is not a normal storm._ He narrows his gaze at it. _No, there’s something- there! Yes! There!_

A glint of something that should not belong. Anyone else might not have seen it, but Oropher is well-trained in Maian magic- he’d been Melian’s favorite for long centuries- and he’s certain of it, especially when he stands and lets his arms- sensitive as they are to the wind- feel the chill.

 _This is not benevolent magic,_ thinks Oropher grimly. _This is the Enemy’s doing: and a trick at that, though a pretty one indeed, to think it might fool me._

Still, he hesitates before going to Elrond. If Oropher is wrong…

But better to be wary than be proud. Pride leads to death, if left unchecked, and Oropher will give much not to see the destruction and blood of his people once more.

…

Elrond joins him gratifyingly quickly on the balcony, brows furrowed as he observes the dark clouds. 

“This is not any mere storm,” he says.

“No,” agrees Oropher.

“We must speak to the king.”

“I’ve spoken to Amdír.”

“That is good,” says Elrond mildly. “But perhaps we should also consider speaking to Gil-Galad.”

Oropher struggles not to frown. “Lord Elrond-”

“A storm sent by the Enemy is nothing to scoff at,” says Elrond. “We shall need to speak to them all- elves and human alike. We shall need to be ready.” He pauses. “How were you able to see it, my king?”

_How were you able to see it when no other has managed it? That is what you wish to ask of me, you little prince of unity._

Oropher swallows the quick rise of the resentment. “Melian used this before: it’s the kind of enchantment that cannot be saved from within. She used to enchant people who amused her- and keep them enchanted for long spells. It’s of Maian magic. I will offer you any wager on it.”

There’s a momentary pause, and then Gil-Galad walks out of the night, already armored. The gleam of gold on his tall body makes Oropher’s teeth clench; it’s so _gaudy._ It would be tasteless in the smallest soldier, but on a king it’s practically ugly. At least he’s accompanied by Amdír. Oropher feels his nails cut into his palms, but the cut of his greaves hides the tightening fist and he’s glad for it. 

“Is there anything else you know about it?” asks Gil-Galad.

“No,” he says coolly, and makes to stride away.

“I am king,” says Gil-Galad abruptly, and Oropher- turned away, almost at the door- feels the temperature in the room plummet to something far colder than mere ice. “And I shall thank you not to divide us now, when your host cannot match my own and- grateful though we may be for your aid- it all risks worse and terrible deaths for our people if they choose to fight under separate banners, at cross-purposes.”

Oropher whirls around. “Do not pretend to be king of all elves,” he snarls. “You are king of those who think they can tolerate you, kinslayer-abider that you are! And you may have the greater force, but I’ll have you remember that it was _your_ battle plans that led to the confusion that left Amdír defenseless!” Elrond and Gil-Galad both look stricken- _fucking_ Noldor and their spinelessness, Oropher thinks contemptuously. _They can make their glorious speeches and wreak destruction such that it destroys entire continents, but they’ve never been able to stomach any of the blame themselves._ “I’m sure it would aid you to have another realm ruled by your bloody fist, but I’ll not have it at the cost of another king’s life.”

“And you think I would?” asks Gil-Galad lowly.

He sounds faintly disturbed, but his eyes are affixed to Elrond, who is whiter yet than Oropher’s ever seen him before.

“I have seen what comes of trusting you invaders,” says Oropher coldly, and does flee before he can speak anything more.

…

Amdír follows him.

“Brother,” he calls, and barely touches Oropher’s wrist before stepping away. “You did not need to defend me so well to him. Though I thank you for it.”

“I am tired,” says Oropher bluntly. “I am _tired_ of this: this thoughtlessness, this bitterness. I thought I could tolerate it, but not at the price of lives! Of yours, and my own!”

“Do you think him capable of such bloodless ambition?” asks Amdír slowly.

Oropher shakes his head, but answers: “I think him capable of much if the mood takes him. Not of his own volition. But there are only so many coincidences that can surround someone wishing for more power before the coincidences do not seem like such coincidence.”

“Oropher,” says Amdír quietly. “We are- we _must_ defeat Sauron. You know this. You began this.”

“And so we shall,” he replies. “But at our own behest, and not Gil-Galad’s.” Then he sighs. “And that is if we leave this city at all.”

Amdír looks alarmed. “You think we will not?”

“I think,” says Oropher, low and grim as the clouds currently swirling about them, glinting the black glimmers of Sauron’s magic, “that if we do survive, it shall be a greater miracle than any we’ve seen before.”

…

It is not that Oropher enjoys drinking, but rather that he enjoys the _taste_ of it: the headiness, the warmth, the smooth gentility. He prefers drinking in the safety of his own chambers, but changes must be accepted when in the presence of other kings.

He’s still rather unsure of why this feast is happening in the first place, actually. But the wine is flowing, and there’s a note to it that he can’t quite identify, and it’s a warm, cheerful hall. Oropher can see Thranduil enjoying himself down below, more cheerful than Oropher has seen him in a long time. It makes something low and hard curdle in his stomach: Oropher, who, alone of all the people in the city, knows what is to come.

“My lord,” says- someone. 

A royal someone. Not Elendil; Oropher remembers him, if for nothing but his height. This is one of his sons. His younger son. The one who’d welcomed them into his home. The one who’d welcomed them into his home, not suspecting what they brought with them, not knowing that soon enough these halls would be strewn with corpses and-

“-apologies on behalf of my brother.”

Jerked back to reality, Oropher nods. He doesn’t know what to say exactly; just that there’s something about the other one, the lust-driven one. 

_Do be fair, darling._ Oropher grimaces at his wife’s chiding tone- she’d left him when the Valinorean Host left, and spent many weeks trying to convince Thranduil to follow her. It’s been a very long time since he heard it, but the storm is playing with his own senses, insidiously powerful no matter how high Oropher maintained his mental barriers. _They’re as children._

“No matter,” says Oropher gruffly, trying to wave past the awkward pause. Everyone seems to be looking at him. “A man’s mistakes cannot be held against him forever.”

“I am speaking to you of it because…” he hesitates, briefly, and then forges onwards, “-because I’d like to assure you that no such betrayal shall happen again. Everyone here is trusted by me: trusted unto the end. My wife- my children- my brother’s children-”

“-oh,” says Oropher, utterly disgusted. “Are you trying to offer assurances of their loyalty? I’ve no need of _that,_ King- Anárion.” Yes, that’s his name, Oropher’s fairly certain of it. “I know that what happened with your brother was stupidity and foolishness, nothing to be repeated. Was that what worried you so deeply?”

“Yes,” says Anárion, looking deeply relieved. 

He tries to continue, but before he can, there’s a very loud clang, and his wife- Queen Eru, or some such deeply strange name- stands up, a wine staining the pale silk of her gown to dark mulberry. Her face manages to look both irritated and dispassionate; she excuses herself and returns a few moments later, wearing a fresh gown and a strained smile.

Well she might; their stores are being depleted, and Oropher doesn’t know for how long this storm will last, nor how big Osgiliath’s reserves are. 

But there will be time for despair in the morning.

For that is the true magic of the storm. It is why someone must act from the outside to break it, no matter how simple it might be to actually do so. The storm washes them in despair and in grief, until even rising from their beds shall be too difficult. Oropher has seen good elves- strong elves- wither into nothingness under this storm. He doesn’t know how they’ll manage it now.

All of those worries slip away under the gentle magic of the storm: lulling them into its inexorable embrace. Oropher considers fighting against it for the shortest of moments. But it will not do anything; and anyhow, better he reserve his strength for battles he can win. He drains his cup instead, and lets the golden sheen wrap around him wholly, sweet and cloying as honey.

…

**Arc Three: Istya**

…

_There is an old tale that my mother taught me, Istya, and I am teaching you now: for this is a thing that is carried mother-to-daughter, a thing that has been carried for more than three thousand years, a thing that is both precious and terrible all at once. Do you understand?_

_No,_ Istya had replied, because she had been young then- so young, golden-eyed in the blush of Númenor before its fall, innocent as a newborn kitten. _No, Mother. But tell me- tell me- I will listen-_

 _Yes,_ her mother had said, and _hush,_ and also, _I love you._

And then the whole terrible tale spilled out.

…

Istya is tired.

So tired.

But the path to Lothlórien is blocked. The storm shepherds her to the west, ensuring she cannot stop if she is to remain ahead of it, along the Misty Mountains and eventually into them. Istya keeps going: when her horse falters, she finally lets it go and keeps on, grimly, head down and feet trudging onwards.

…

The days pass, and her supplies dwindle, and Istya can feel her tension rising with her hunger.

…

She dreams, that night: of mirror-feathered birds, and white storms with glimmers of scarlet threaded through it like a thousand eyes, and evil panting at her heels like ravenous hounds. When Istya wakes, the air is scalding-cold and her fingers are blue. 

She cries, then, silently, and her tears turn to ice on her cheeks.

…

It happens quickly. So quickly. She’s walking- stumbling- north, and then her foot slips, and Istya screams as she tumbles down. She keeps screaming until she lands on hard earth- earth cold enough to be frozen and all the more unforgiving for it- and has the breath knocked out of her. Then it’s just little breathless whimpers; Istya’s scrambling up, trying to find purchase on the slick stone, but it’s useless and she’s limping, and-

And it isn’t a bruise.

The darkness on the earth- the warmth- is seeping out of her. There is blood on this ice and it is because of her. There is too _much_ blood on this ice, and Istya has spent enough time with soldiers to know that a cut across a thigh will bleed out too swiftly for aid to come. This is a deathblow.

This is a deathblow not only to her, but to her family as well. To the _world:_ for if she doesn’t save her family, Sauron shall win.

 _No,_ she thinks, the single thought brighter and sharper than any other that she’s had in a very, very long time. _No. I cannot abide this._

Istya sinks backwards, and settles, elevating the leg so the cut is bleeding sluggishly. Her hands are shaking- and not only because of the cold. But Istya forces herself to remember: her father, his dark eyes, his rough, even voice; Italimë and her lovely dancing, like spirals of silver under moonlight; Istilmë and her quiet, graceful inkstrokes on white parchment; Meneldil, sweet Meneldil with his loud laughter and louder rages; and her mother, at the end of it all, Queen Eressë of Gondor, bright-eyed and more beautiful than a thousand statues, fierce and ferocious and fearsome, all in equal measure.

(They say that the most difficult thing in the world is to choose death.)

Istya remembers them, her family that she loves, and all the chains holding her back loosen.

 _I love you,_ she thinks, and the last barrier falls, and her voice lifts to the heavens in a song more fearsome than any loosed on Middle-Earth in an entire Age.

…

They are not elves. This is important to remember: none of them are elves. Eressë’s relationship to elves goes all the way back to Ceura, who was the daughter of Tindómiel, who was the eldest daughter of Elros Half-Elven but chose the path of Men. So Istya, second daughter of Queen Eressë and King Anárion, has the blood of elves, yes, but not the whole of it.

The tale itself is something simple. It is not the tale that is terrible.

Once, on a cool afternoon, Maglor- who had chosen to raise Elros and Elrond instead of slaughter them as he’d done to the rest of their blood- had decided to teach the little boys a trick that Maglor had learned from his own brother, Celegorm the Wild. And though Elrond never could pick up the trick of it, Elros did: and he twittered to the birds for months on end, and they twittered back.

But the abilities of elves are not the abilities of humans.

Elros _chose,_ and so perhaps it did not affect him. Elros then taught this ability to the only one of his children who loved animals as deeply as he did, and sent her away to Andustar, and then that child- his only daughter, Tindómiel- taught _her_ only daughter, the fair-eyed Ceura, and Ceura taught her daughter, and so on and so forth until Eressë’s mother- Istya’s grandmother- married back into Almaida, and the ability returned.

It is a skill used rarely, sparingly. 

Istya knows this.

Two times has it been used before, to her knowledge: once by Tindómiel, who spoke to the birds and flung herself into the sea that evening, mad with desire to see Valinor; and second by Ceura, who spoke to a wild, mirror-feathered bird while her husband traipsed over Middle-Earth, and saw a storm that swallowed a white city whole in its shining feathers. 

Ceura never spoke again, though she wove the scene into a tapestry when she returned to Númenor.

…

 _Beware the storms that are coming,_ one of the demons had told her father. 

They have feared the storms, the women of her line, ever since Ceura saw the mirrored bird more than three thousand years before, and witnessed something more terrible than any they’ve seen before. Tar-Míriel had mentioned- once, weeping- to Istya’s other grandmother, of a dream of the sea, swallowing Númenor whole. But this storm is something else. It is not a wave: it is snow, snow and ice white as dead flesh; with shining parts within that glow like so many pyres of the dead.

Her mother had come to her immediately after hearing the warning. She’d roused Istya, and then Italimë, and then Istilmë, and she’d commanded all three of them to listen to her: for something terrible was coming, and they’d all need to work together to survive it.

Then she’d accompanied Istya to the stables, and she’d held her daughter tightly, and she’d whispered, “If you must give your life for this, then you must use all your skills. _All_ of them. Do you understand me?”

And Istya- who is young but not too young; who is bright but not mithril-bright, who is brave but not foolhardy- knows what she risks now.

“Yes,” she whispers back, and mounts her horse, and spurs it onwards.

…

The song rises to the heavens, and birds flock to her that should not be there: birds that Istya should not be able to command. They land near her, and atop her, and claw at her briefly, lashing out; but Istya does not care. She does not mind. She is floating in a land where pain matters little.

 _Go,_ she sings. _To Durin the Deathless, Durin the fierce! Tell him from where you come, and tell him where he must go! Go! Go! Now!_

She closes her eyes, throat raw, and feels the buffet of a thousand birds taking flight around her. When she opens them, the crevice is empty.

But not quite.

There is one last, little songbird there: brown-feathered, with a cheeping sound that seems too loud for its tiny body. It trembles when Istya cups her hands about it.

 _You cannot go north,_ she thinks miserably. _It is too cold for you already, little bird. North shall only kill you the faster. No. No: I will not send you to your death._

Her throat is aching, so badly, so, so badly. It is a pain quite unlike any other that she’s felt before. Istya wonders if she should do this, but she owes her family hope, if nothing else.

And if she is to die, better it happen the faster.

 _Go south,_ she says, and tastes sour blood at the back of her mouth. _Fly through the storms. Return to my home, and lend hope to the halls of my fathers! Fly to Gondor! Fly! Fly! Now!_

Istya releases the little bird and collapses backwards as it flies away, higher and higher until not even the faintest speck of brown is visible among the darkness of the clouds. Then she closes her eyes, throat torn apart, heart shredded to pieces, soul twisting like frayed cloth, and lets unconsciousness take her.

…

There is pain in the darkness.

…

There is grief in the darkness.

…

There is- there is light, in the darkness. 

…

 _And so your legacy lives on,_ says someone, sounding amused.

 _I did not think it remained,_ says another. He sounds faintly alarmed. _I did not think any of this would remain in this world._

 _Remember this,_ says a third voice, ringing of trumpets like the horns of the elven armies. _That not all of what you were was grievous, and there are legacies which can save free peoples millennia removed from what you were. Remember this girl, and her courage, and your actions as well, Fëanorian!_

…

Istya wakes, startling, and tries to scream. Her throat erupts into pain almost immediately, sharp as a blade, and she chokes.

Someone soothes her, pressing water into her hands and letting her drink. Istya sips from it slowly, hands trembling. Then she looks up, and sees the warm gaze of a dwarf.

It takes her a minute to realize.

She should not be here. She should be _dead,_ as Tindómiel was, as Ceura was. Singing to the birds- speaking to the birds- should not be possible for humans such as them. It is because of the drop of elvish blood that they even _can,_ but they pay a terrible price for it. And Istya’s blood is further diluted! Tindómiel went mad, and Ceura died before she could, but they both had far more elf blood than Istya, which was why Eressë had been so certain that Istya would die. 

Istya should be dead, but she is not.

“Oh, lass,” says the dwarf quietly, pressing one of her hands between his own. “You have suffered, have you not?” He doesn’t wait for her answer. “King Durin sent us here to search for you- as quickly as possible. You were lucky; the cold stopped your bleeding before you could die, and you’d fallen unconscious on your side so the blood in your throat did not cause you to choke.”

Istya nods to show him she understands.

His expression softens further. “We’ll be reaching Khazad-dûm in half a day. You’ll be safe there.” When she presses a hand to her throat, he nods. “I’ll give you a tea for your throat. It might never be the same again, but you’ll be able to speak.”

After a long moment, Istya nods again, and closes her eyes. Sleep takes her again, swiftly, swifter than it ever has before.

…

Istya’s voice is cracked and hoarse, and it hurts to speak, but the dwarves are certain that she _should_ be using it instead of remaining silent. Apparently muscles can wither if left unused, and Istya must be careful not to either overuse or underuse her voice if she wishes to bring it back as close as she can to its original loveliness.

“Your majesty,” she says, sweeping a curtsy.

Durin the Fourth stands before her: dark-haired and copper-eyed, draped in armor that glimmers in the evening light like a torch. 

“Princess of Gondor,” he replies gravely. “It is good to see you. We worried that it would be too late to find you- the cold in these mountains can be grievous if braved alone.”

“I had no choice,” says Istya. “There is a storm surrounding Osgiliath, and someone had to leave before it came: someone who could fly on wings when even her own strength failed.”

“You sent the birds,” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“My elven ancestor.”

Something sharpens in Durin’s face. “There was only one elf I knew of who could speak to birds.”

“Then it must have been taught by him, mustn’t it?” asks Istya tiredly.

For a long moment, there is silence. Then Durin says, grimly, “Your uncle did not approach us, Princess. He spoke to the others- the kings of the elves, and even the lord- but not us. We awaited his arrival. But none of them came.”

“I’m here now,” says Istya. “Does that not matter?”

“You are here because you have no choice.”

“I could have gone to Lothlórien,” she points out, and swallows the blood that she can start to feel already. Her throat rather feels like someone has shredded it apart from the inside. “They would have welcomed me. I came here instead- and risked _everything-_ because I thought your army the better. Because we need help, Your Majesty, and we need it quickly.” She forces herself to shrug. “And who would not wish to be the army that saves the rest of the free people of Middle-Earth? Who would not wish to march to glory and triumph, heralding dawn with your trumpets?”

Durin frowns at her. “Your father still refused to address us. It is an insult that cannot be overlooked.”

“And perhaps he was waiting for you now,” says Istya. “Perhaps he was hoping that you would hold the west against Sauron, if he was to lose.”

Lies.

All lies.

But it gives Durin a reason to save face, and it’s enough to get her a battalion of nearly a hundred dwarves to accompany her to Osgiliath.

Perhaps it would be better if she bargained for more. Perhaps she should. But Istya is tired, and she is wounded, and she is alive where she should not be, and she thinks that she will count her blessings before asking for more just now.

…

**Arc Four: Aratan**

…

Guilt has never been an emotion that Aratan has dealt with well.

He doesn’t deal with it well now, either; Aratan snarls his way through swordpractice, scowls during dinners, avoids his father’s bedside and sulks in his rooms. 

“Enough,” says Elendur, the morning after Aratan punched one of Anárion’s guards in the face. “You need to stop.”

“I’ll stop,” says Aratan, “when I fucking _want to.”_

…

But that night, Ceryon comes to his quarters and drags him out to the private rooms where their family has been gathering. It isn’t just their family, though; Oropher is there, and so is Thranduil, and Gil-Galad and Elrond as well. Apparently it’s a _royal_ gathering, not just a family one.

“A song,” says Eressë. “To lift our spirits, perhaps?”

“I’ll dance if it’s a song I know,” offers Italimë. 

It’s Gil-Galad that takes up a song, after an awkward pause. Aratan shoves himself a little deeper into the corner, gnawing on his lip until he can feel the copper tang of blood. He doesn’t _want_ to be here, but Ciryon’s grip is tight enough to tell him that Aratan’s going to get a dislocated shoulder before he gets out of the room.

And then they do perform it: a song in Gil-Galad’s clear, smooth baritone; Italimë’s clear, smooth dance. It pairs well together, this dance that looks more like someone battling with spears and swords than Italimë’s usual fluttery leaps, and the song that Gil-Galad sings, of a summer romance between two elven lovers.

When it’s over, Italimë is laughing, and her cheeks are flushed.

“One more!” exclaims Meneldil. “Please, my lord, you _must._ It’s been far too long since we’ve enjoyed ourselves like this!”

Gil-Galad hesitates, and then he turns to Elrond. “A duet, perhaps,” he murmurs. “The one written by- well. Of the joy and grief. Do you remember it?”

“I couldn’t forget,” says Elrond. “But- are you certain-”

“Yes,” says Gil-Galad. “Come, now. You take the beginning. I’ll take the end.”

Elrond has a higher voice than Gil-Galad, and a better voice, too; his notes shiver about the room like so much silk. Aratan finds that he cannot look away from Italimë, who’s doing a remarkable job of improvising for it: she’s sunk into the notes, is whirling and floating in that part of her that exists somewhere beyond even knowledge. It’s like a berserker’s rage, only in Italimë it is lovely and it is not deadly.

The song itself is- strange. 

Elrond is joyous, that is obvious; he is singing of something beautiful and something glorious, and Gil-Galad is singing of an ending of that precious thing. The lines are steadily getting shorter, though, from monologues to what looks to be a proper dialogue, both Gil-Galad and Elrond flushing with the piercing notes of the song, trading off the song with glee.

And then they _combine,_ singing high and low, and Italimë starts spinning, over and over and over again, until she is shining in the center of the room like a star of silver.

Just as the song reaches its crescendo, a loud, horrific sound rings out.

Aratan leaps to his feet. Italimë crumples to the floor, crying out, and both Elrond and Gil-Galad fall silent. Then Anárion laughs. 

“A bird,” he says, approaching a window. It’s a small bird- a songbird, Aratan thinks, though he doesn’t know enough of them to truly be able to confirm it. “Nothing to worry over.”

There’s a crack in the window. Aratan feels his entire world drain out of his body, dread flooding into its place. 

_The bird’s too small to have made that crack. Too small to have made that crack_ naturally.

“Stop-”

Anárion picks it up, and it lifts its little head and chirps, in a voice that echoes of Istya: _“Durin’s army comes to break the storm!”_

There is a sword in Aratan’s hand, and he doesn’t know where it comes from, only that it is there, and there is a bird- a bird, there- in the voice of his cousin- like he’d seen of that _woman_ trying to kill his little brother-

“Stop!” commands Elendil, but Aratan is fast, and young, and-

Ceryon leaps on him, bearing Aratan down gracelessly. Then he smashes Aratan’s head into the stone, and everything goes very dizzy for a brief moment. 

When Aratan can finally see properly again, Anárion is staring at them both, color high on his cheeks.

“Treachery,” snarls Aratan, bucking to throw Ceryon off of him. Anárion frowns. “The Enemy uses the same method to speak to his people. It was how _she_ spoke to him from Rivendell!”

Italimë makes a sound, high and hurt, in the back of her throat, and Istilmë is there, holding her in the middle of the cold flagstones. Aratan finally manages to wrench himself away from Ceryon and turns, and sees his aunt Eressë standing, one hand pressed to her mouth, her goblet of wine dropped carelessly onto the ground. All three of them look- shattered.

“Though it doesn’t explain why it comes in Istya’s voice,” says Elendur quietly.

“Not treachery,” says Eressë, finally, when it is clear that they are all staring at her and awaiting an explanation. Her voice is very choked, and very distant, like she’s explaining from very far away. “The bird speaks in Istya’s voice because it was Istya who sent the bird.”

“Istya is ill,” says Anárion. “That’s what you told me!”

“Let the bird go,” says Eressë, when it makes a small squawk of discomfort. She gestures, and Meneldil steps forwards to take it from his father’s hands. Eressë doesn’t look away from her husband the entire time, and Aratan realizes in some vague, distant part of himself that his aunt looks absolutely terrifyingly bereft. “Istya is not ill, my love. I- I am sorry to say this- but she is not ill. She is where no pain can touch her any longer.”

Aratan freezes. 

They all do.

“What do you mean?” asks Anárion hoarsely. At her silence, he approaches and grips Eressë’s arm. “Eressë, _what do you mean?”_

“She is dead,” says Eressë, and Italimë cries out, burying herself deeper in Istilmë’s arms. 

“My, _my,”_ says Oropher. He, alone of the people in the room, is lounging indolently. “It hasn’t been all that long since you were promising me of how we need not fear betrayal from your family, has it?”

Anárion’s jaw works. “Why is Istya dead?”

Eressë tears herself away, stopping only when the wall is at her back and she’s pressed against it. “Because I sent her to save us.”

“From _what?”_

“From a storm with no end.”

“How did you know about the storm?” demands Aratan.

Eressë swallows visibly. “The Nazgûl said-”

“-nothing any of the rest of us could understand,” finishes Oropher archly.

“It is a prophecy,” says Eressë, after a moment’s silence. “A prophecy of my blood, from mother to daughter going all the way back to Ceura, daughter of Tindómiel, daughter of Elros.”

“And what does this prophecy say?” asks Gil-Galad smoothly.

“It says,” says Istilmë, rising to her feet, looking unearthly and furious, “that there is to be a storm with no end that swallows a white city whole. Nothing more. Nothing less. Do you understand now? Two women lost their lives for that information.” Then she pauses, and an awful kind of grief passes over her, like a shroud. “Three, now. Istya is the third.”

Elrond looks like he’s barely breathing. “That doesn’t explain the birds.”

“Elros knew it,” says Eressë. “And he taught it to his daughter Tindómiel, but he told her that it was only ever to be used in emergencies. And she heeded him until the day she did not, when she spoke to the gulls of Andustar and leapt off the beach to join them. Her daughter- Ceura, of Almaida- refrained from speaking to the birds until she saw a mirror-feathered bird in Middle-Earth and it showed her the future: a storm. This storm. The end. But because she captured it the bird had placed a curse, it said, on Ceura’s line; of mother to daughter and over again, that threatened madness. A curse that could not be undone until the storm arrived; a curse that could not be spoken of. I had no _choice._ All I had was this: this knowledge that it is something we can do, this threat and this weapon. Do you understand now, my lords?”

“If Durin’s army comes,” says Oropher slowly, “then this storm shall be broken swiftly.”

Anárion ignores him.

“You lied to me,” he says softly.

“I had no choice.”

“You could have said something.” Anárion’s voice trembles faintly. “Anything.”

But Aunt Eressë has never been the kind to take a blow quietly. Aratan remembers the family tale: Eressë had once been slapped by her tutor, and she’d very calmly stood up and cracked her tablet over that tutor’s head. 

Now, he can see the way her face goes white, perfectly still as a frozen pool, as a wolf before it leaps: a predator having been backed into a corner, a predator deciding its attacker will be its prey.

“Istya has been gone for more than a month,” she says, voice cold as a whipping wind. “And you never once went to see her.”

Anárion recoils. “I-”

“I wept every night,” she continues in a whisper, though her voice lifts as well, buoyed by the scream of the wind entering through the cracked window. “But you never spoke to me. I condemned my daughter to death, and I could scarcely live with myself, and you left me _alone,_ I couldn’t _tell_ you what had happened, I could not even lie to you, _because you never asked!”_

Into the shocked silence that follows, Elrond rises to his feet.

“Perhaps we can speak more on this later,” he says.

“No,” says Anárion. “What more is there to speak of?”

“Anárion,” begins Gil-Galad.

 _“King_ Anárion,” he snaps, and Gil-Galad- though not only Gil-Galad; all of them- recoil. “Enough. I am a king, my wife, and we have all forgotten that, I think. It is time we remembered it. And as a king- as your king- I command you to see yourself to your private chambers, and remain within them.”

“You’re imprisoning me,” says Eressë flatly.

Anárion glares at her. “I was warned of your treason, and I did not heed it. Life-stealer, the Nazgûl named you, and I did not think anything of it.”

Quicker than any of them can stop it, Eressë slaps him. Her ring scratches a line of blood down Anárion’s cheek.

“Life-giver, too, was the name I was given,” she says, voice thick and bitter. “And I was promised a lifetime together, but that, also, has been stolen from me.”

She leaves, then, flanked by Istilmë and Italimë- and not Istya, never Istya any longer- and Aratan feels the chill of grief finally bite, now that the numbness of shock and rage has faded.

…

That night, he goes to Isildur’s bedside. Touches his father’s cold, cold skin. Tries not to cry.

“I should have been faster,” he whispers. “I should have- I should have trusted you. That you could handle it.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid, Tanno.”

Aratan jerks up to see Elendur at the entrance to the infirmary, backlit by the lamps. “Don’t call me that,” he says reflexively.

“Are you going to stop me?” asks Elendur. 

“I’ve been able to stop you since I was _ten.”_

“You aren’t now.”

And while there are things that Aratan might ignore, this is not one of them. He leaps forwards, unmindful of the crash of his chair to the ground, aiming for Elendur’s waist.

Elendur doesn’t let him.

They spin together, and Elendur’s elbow comes down straight into the middle of his shoulder, knocking his breath out, and then Aratan’s on the floor, pinned by his brother, his scholarly, diplomatic, physically _untalented_ brother who- as Aratan said- has been consistently defeated by Aratan since well before Aratan turned of age.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Elendur’s grip relaxes, and he can feel the gasping sobs in his chest; Aratan tries to hunch in on himself, but Elendur goes with him, curved around him like a blanket made of heavy limbs and wet breath.

“Stop it,” he manages to choke out.

Elendur drives a solid punch into his kidney before cuddling closer. “No,” he says implacably. _“You_ stop.”

“Both of you are scoundrels,” croaks another voice.

For a long moment, Aratan is certain he dreamt it. But no: he looks up, and Isildur is awake. Awake!

White as a sheet, and propped up shakily on his elbows, but _awake,_ in a manner that Aratan couldn’t have dreamed of earlier. 

“Merciful Valar,” he manages, and this time the tears streaming down his face are not of grief but of joy.

…

**Arc Five: Elrond**

…

“My lady,” says Elrond, sweeping into a neat bow.

Queen Eressë of Gondor curtsies back to him. But her face is sallow, and her daughters don’t look very much different.

“My lord,” she returns. “Is there something that I can do for you?”

“King Isildur awoke this morning.”

“Oh, thank the Valar,” she murmurs, and sags backwards onto the chair behind her. 

Elrond slowly approaches her. “But- if I’m truthful, I didn’t come here to tell you that alone. I’ve- other news.”

Eressë lifts one eyebrow into a perfect arch. “Other news?”

“Perhaps you know of my line’s propensity for foresight?”

“I have heard of it,” she says slowly.

“Then you shall not doubt me when I say that I saw Durin’s army approaching today. They shall reach us at dawn.”

Eressë straightens further, impossible further. It looks like she has a sword for a spine. 

It won’t be that simple, this joy that Elrond wants to give her. Durin’s army can remind her of everything that she’s lost to get that army here, to dissipate the storm curling over them. Foresight is terribly faulty, and can go wrong in a hundred ways if used overmuch.

But sparingly, it can give hope. 

And hope can be worth anything.

It can be worth _everything._

“You are certain?” she asks quietly.

Elrond holds out a hand, and is gladdened, deeply, when she takes it. “Come with me,” he says. “To the Dome of Stars. See for yourself.”

“Anárion has ordered-”

“And am I not the elder kinsman?” asks Elrond gently.

He doesn’t like to wield this power. Elrond is content with what he has; he always has been. It had been Elros who was ambitious; it had been Elros who wanted the world. Elrond had always been content to follow him, to be dragged along in Elros’ wake, right up until Elros decided that he wanted the grandest adventure of all.

But right now, he finds that the right thing _is_ to use some of this authority, little though he likes it.

“Who else have you told?”

“Nobody,” he assures her. “They shall know it soon enough. But this is something that belongs to you, my lady, above all others. It is for your courage and decisive action that the army shall come, and because of it you have saved the Last Alliance. That is no small thing.”

Eressë closes her eyes. “At what cost?”

“Too high,” he replies. “Far, far too high. But necessary, too. A terrible kind of necessity.”

She studies him: and perhaps she’s thinking of all that Elrond has lost over these years, brother and parents both; home after home after home. And that, at last, seems to convince her. Grimly, she rises to her feet and gestures for him to lead her out of the room.

Nobody disturbs them on the walk up. Elrond cannot hold back his grimace when he sees the Dome of Stars- it had once been so beautiful, and now, while the most dangerous marble blocks have been removed, the destruction is even more obvious. The Nazgûl had not been trying to mitigate destruction in its battle against Anárion.

“You said dawn,” murmurs Eressë.

Elrond inclines his head. “Soon.”

She turns away to approach the warped railing where the Nazgûl had perched. Elrond stays where he is, but pitches his voice louder, so she can hear.

“There was only ever one elf known for speaking to birds.”

Eressë’s hand grips the metal tightly: Elrond can see the blanche of her knuckles. “Just because someone does not exhibit their skills, that does not mean they cannot do it.”

“Queen Eressë,” says Elrond softly, and waits for her to turn to look at him. “Whatever lessons my brother received, I did as well.”

“Oh,” says Eressë, and sways. “I had not thought of that.”

“I remember that day well. Elros always enjoyed the wilder aspects of our lessons. Birds- beasts- he always liked them, while I favored the plants.”

“And so you became a healer, and he became a king.”

“Yes.”

“Maglor taught you,” she says, finally. “As he was taught by Celegorm.”

“Maglor was as a second father to us,” says Elrond. “He taught us all that he could think of to keep us safe. The First Age- the end of the First Age- was so dangerous; none of us knew what might allow us to survive for one more year, month, week. It all might have mattered.”

Eressë looks off into the distance, but her eyes glitter gold, reflecting the first rays of the sun.

“How could you forgive him?”

“He loved us,” says Elrond calmly. “Love cannot erase unforgivable things, but it can make them forgivable.”

A tear traces down Eressë;s face, shining as a diamond. “I love Anárion. I know he loves me. But I don’t- I don’t know how we move past this. The death of my _daughter-”_

“Give him time,” advises Elrond. “Give yourself time.”

“Don’t you understand?” Eressë smiles at him, bitter as she’d been in those chambers where Italimë had danced like a silver star, and Elrond sang of the Mereth Aderthad, and she’d received news of Istya’s death. “Time is the one thing that we humans never have.”

She holds out a hand to Elrond.

No, not a hand. 

An open hand, with a loop of silk in the middle, knotted in a strange manner that Elrond’s never seen before.

“I give Anárion this silk thread every year,” she says. “It’s a kind of seasilk that we only made in Almaida. Nowhere else in all the world. I’ve been ripping one of my gowns to make it for him after we left Númenor.”

“It’s beautiful,” Elrond tells her.

It is: a coil of silver and gold, each strand weaving together to make something grander than each metal individually, all captured in cloth.

“Give it to him,” says Eressë quietly. “I don’t- I cannot think that he will accept it from my own hand, and I cannot imagine him going off to war without my shield, slender and slight though it may be.”

Slowly, Elrond curls her fingers back over the silk.

Perhaps he will be wrong. But he doesn’t think that he is. 

“Wait,” he says, and turns her so she is facing the horizon. 

So Eressë is facing the horizon as the first dwarves emerge, banners of scarlet and gold shining like the sun. She gasps, but Elrond supports her when her knees waver. The army approaches, not so grand as the alliance that grew in Rivendell but perhaps the more relieving for its groundedness, and the closer they come to the gates of Osgiliath the brighter the sunlight seems, and the fainter the stormclouds.

And then, close enough to hear their trumpets, they can see: there, at the head, on a horse of a coat glowing silver, is Istya, daughter of Eressë, daughter of Ceura, daughter of Tindómiel.

“She’s alive,” says Eressë faintly.

Elrond laughs. He laughs as Eressë laughs, as Anárion and Elendil and what looks to be half the castle bursts onto the Dome, as the golden dawn spreads warm fingers over the white city of Middle-Earth and the terrible storm clouds fade out of sight.

 _“How?”_ asks Eressë.

“She is not only your daughter,” he says gently. “But also the daughter of Anárion, who bears the blood of Elros as well. There has not been a line that has wedded into the line of Númenórean royalty more than the lords of Andúnië. And of course: there have been rumors of elven lovers in the Andustar for many, many centuries now.” Then he pauses, and adds: “But the Valar have always had much pity in their hearts, and mercy as well. It is not just one thing or the other.”

She holds the silk up, crumpled and soft, and Elrond nods to Eressë.

“Give it to him yourself,” he tells her. “You are not alone any longer.”

And then the tide of joyous people swarms over them, shouting, disbelieving, cheering, and Elrond watches his many-times nephew sweep his wife into his arms and kiss her, and he turns to the sunlight, and lets its warmth heat his too-cold bones.

There will be a time for battle again, and for mourning, and for politics, too.

But Elrond remembers the days of peace in Amon Ereb with Maglor and Maedhros and Elros, and he remembers the days of joy in Eregion with Celebrimbor, and he remembers the days of laughter in Lindon with Gil-Galad, and he remembers the days of light in Rivendell. He'd considered telling someone- anyone- of who resides there with him, this father that none would believe him if he were named; he'd considered telling Gil-Galad, that their kinsman yet lives in the quiet halls of Imladris; he'd considered telling Eressë that the elf who taught Elros how to sing to birds sings, still, in the Hall of Fire in Imladris, and sung to Elrond a lullaby and a battlecry both in the days before Elrond had to leave.

There will be a time, perhaps, for truth, and to speak these words. But for now there is only joy: the kind of joy brought by hope overwhelming and unstoppable, and that matters. That is worth quite a lot.

As Elrond has learned through true, bitter experience: it’s worth _everything._


End file.
